Rounds opens with a joke that sounds like a tall tale: harbour cheese made from the milk of tired clouds. From there, the poem follows Old Man Klopstock as he searches his winter pockets for a way out, and the search slides into something darker. His hand moves toward a "cold, wounded thigh" and the "death shroud of Charlemagne," where the churchly and the fantastical collide. Then Klopstock slips into his own wound, as if escape means disappearing into his pain.
The tone is playful on top and sorrowful underneath. Klopstock seems weary, a little theatrical, and oddly generous. On his way out he tips his wig and offers instructions that can't be followed: dig a hole in the water, bury your tears at sea, print a picture of your shadow. Each one is impossible, yet each feels strangely true about grief and identity. The closing "Honestly" is dry and sincere at once, leaving a mood of wry, tender melancholy.